Tramps Like Us
by Kato Molotov
Summary: [6x22 Post-Ep. 1,000 word drabble.] Just because. Because they can. Because there's nothing to stop them.


Due resolutely northeast and sailing towards home, the Ferrari purrs in protest to the restraint of its capabilities as it hovers at 65. D.C. twinkles behind them and shrinks into a hazy glow on the skyline as city turns into suburban sameness. The frenzied press and the Washington politicos blaze with the still-unraveling web of lies and corruption, the thread she pulled to send it all flying undone, and she can practically hear the excitement even from here.

She doesn't care at all. She doesn't want to hear about it. Doesn't care how they brand her or Bracken or that they're calling it the story of the decade. To her, to them, it's just _over_. They can't find a radio station that's not breaking the story, so Castle turns it off and hums softly to fill the car, some old tune she's heard a hundred times on the classic rock station but never really put a name to. His voice is plain but pleasant; an unremarkable, uncomplicated baritone she found unexpectedly delightful when she discovered it years ago. It's nothing special, but it's all him. He hums and sings only when he thinks he's alone, or just for her.

His gentle song and the swollen drops of spring rain drumming on the roof silence every voice of doubt or fear or regret or grief. The last week should be whizzing through her mind. She should be ecstatic, vindicated, relieved, uncertain, excited for a future she now knows is hers for the taking, no strings attached. Instead, she thinks of nothing at all, feels nothing but the steady presence beside her. His little song. His easy focus on the road ahead, interrupted only with the occasional glance over at her. The confined space fills with the love and acceptance and hope he's always radiated for her, love that she can finally return just as wholly as it's given.

For the first time in fifteen years, the absence of fear surrounds her. It hushes her mind and settles her body, slowly undoing knots she never knew she carried in her shoulders and back and thighs. She's long since forgotten this, this feeling of safety and rightness. Doesn't quite know what to do with it. But it's hers, and it's good, and it's a foundation for a future she can finally let herself believe in.

Kate presses her cheek to the cool window and inhales deeply, the petrichor a balm and invigoration at once. She races the raindrops on the outside, lets her temperate exhales fog up the glass. Draws mindless little patterns in it before it vanishes.

As the dusk darkens, Castle pulls over in a Laurel, Maryland gas station. Taking out her phone to text her dad that they'd be home in a few hours, something gives her pause. So soon?

Could they…? The possibilities stretch out endlessly, dancing through her mind and playing out before her eyes. Impulse had never been an option. Duty always called. But now… they have forever in front of them, don't they? Forever can't wait another moment.

Castle kills the engine and stumbles around outside, trying to shield himself from the rain while filling the tank. She sits idly when he pulls the car around to the front of the Wawa Mart and darts in, emerging minutes later with two cups of gas station coffee.

"Thanks," she whispers, as if speaking normally would break this newfound peace and safety and possibility. She wonders if she'll ever trust it fully, not wonder if every action is a jinx or a jolt out of a dream.

Back on the road, Castle resumes his humming, something she knows this time. The notes throw her; the runaway's anthem, rich with a young lovers' tradition of getting out of dodge. Memories of the time they heard it performed live bring a light smile to her lips as the bitterness of the cheap coffee fills her mouth and warms her constricted throat. Call it a sign, call it kismet, call it a product of the brain-sharing their friends so love to tease them about. It's all the push she needs.

"Castle?" she breaks into the fifth or sixth repetition as the lights of Baltimore glow across the horizon.

"Yeah?"

"Do you have our bags in the trunk?" No going back now.

"Yeah."

Uncertain of just what she's even asking, the words tumble from her; emerging as if they've been locked up in a secret corner of her mind since they set out on this path together five-odd years ago with no idea where they'd end up. Just waiting for this moment. Like it's what she's meant to say all along. Maybe it is.

"Can we… go? Somewhere? Just… let's just go."

He looks her up and down, searching her words and her soul. The detective gives him a smile, and she feels all of it, tired as it must look. She's okay, and okay isn't a lie any more.

"Where?" he finally answers, unable to suppress an eager note. He's game.

"Anywhere," she repeats. "Virginia," she tosses out randomly, despite it being in the opposite direction they're headed. "Let's go to Virginia. The mountains. Find a cheap motel or a B&B and just… just be, for a few days."

Just because. Because they can. Because there's nothing to stop them.

He pulls an illegal U-turn at the next intersection and she doesn't care that she's a cop or that a guy in a jacked-up truck rolled down his window in the now-pouring rain just to give them the bird.

"I know we have to get back to the city," she admits softly, "and we have our life and our family and our work and our wedding. But can we just have a few days for us?"

He doesn't say a word. He doesn't need to. The writers' calloused hand that slides from the leather of the steering wheel to cover hers across the console is enough.

It's time to live.


End file.
